


Monster

by orphan_account



Series: Shuffle [7]
Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: Gen, mentions of gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:06:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3245633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could fashion himself armor of steel and leather and bone and blood and ruthless anger. He could speak only in snarls and growls, become the rabid street dog everyone took him for.</p><p>He could become a monster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monster

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is based on "I'm A Monster" from Of Mice & Men. I suggest you listen to the song and read the lyrics, and then you'll understand why this was written.

He wanted to kill him.

Not really.

Well, maybe. He wasn’t quite sure, to be honest.

All he knew was that he could feel his pulse in his brain, and his breath was short and uneven, and he couldn’t stop clenching his hands into a fist and,  _fuck_ , he wanted to take that smarmy asshole by his fried fucking hair and bash his face repeatedly into a brick wall, until he wasn’t recognizable beneath the blood.

He _trusted_ him. He trusted him, opened himself up to him, and this is what he was repaid with, with bruises to his back from the steel chair hitting him, over and over and over and-

He wanted to _devour_ him. Rip him apart limb from limb, tear out his organs, swallow them down like every lie he was spoon fed by him, someone he trusted, someone he considered _family_ , someone he once thought he loved.

This is what happens when he lets someone in, when he allows himself to love. They leave. They always leave. He’s nothing but garbage gutter filth, nothing nothing nothing. He could hear the voices he had hidden for so long; the ones of his mother and the men she brought home and the occasional women she brought home and the drug dealers and his classmates calling him names, he was nothing, nothing nothing nothing.

He could become nothing, if that’s what it took.

Or he could become something else.

He could stop pretending to be something deserving of love, lord knows why Roman even bothered anymore. He saw the way everyone looked at him, disgusted and unsure and scared. Scared is good. And maybe, just maybe, if he let himself embrace that dark inkling inside of him, he could stop it all from happening again. He could rip it out, bloody and raw, and crush it beneath his boot. Emotions were for the vulnerable, and he refused to be that.

He could fashion himself armor of steel and leather and bone and blood and ruthless fucking _anger_. He could speak only in snarls and growls, become the rabid street dog everyone took him for.

He could become a monster.

He could unhinge his jaw and swallow Seth Rollins whole and spit him out, devour him bit by bit, grinding his bullshit sentiments and ego between his ragged teeth.

He’d done worse. He’d put himself through hell and back many a time to get through the night, he could deal with tormenting Seth Rollins.

Because that’s what this was going to be, wasn’t it? Tormenting him, torturing him, making his life a living hell.

Dean knew every move that Seth would make, down to a science, down to an art; the downfalls of betraying a man you lived with and traveled with for years. He’d have nowhere to hide, nowhere to run, Dean would make himself known at any and all moments he saw fitting.

He wanted to tear into his chest and gnaw on his heart while it was still beating, frantically pumping with blood as he’d tug at the sinew, watching the shock and horror and pain on Seth’s face, knowing it’s only a _fraction_ of what Dean felt, what Dean feels.

He could do all of this, he kept telling himself, murmuring incoherently as he stared into the cracked mirror of the shitty motel bathroom he was in. His eyes were red, not from crying, fuck that, but from rubbing them in his aggravation. His skin was flushed and clammy and his pupils were blown and while he’d insist vehemently that he wasn’t crazy…

He wasn’t quite sure sometimes.

But if the taste of blood in the back of his mouth and the skin under his nails and splits in his lip and knuckles told him anything, it was that he needed to stop beating himself up. This shedding of skin needed to be internal, needed to be metaphorical.

But the destruction of Seth Rollins?

All too fucking physical.

 

 


End file.
